You Write My Biography With Every Passing Breath
by Thnx4theGum
Summary: River Song wasn't always the confident woman whose hair was brimming with spoilers. There are parts of her story between Berlin and Tranzalore that haven't been lived yet. There are adventures he never thought they'd have. These are just a few of them. Rated T as a safety precaution for the future, but by and large these are clean.
1. Old Familiar Strangers

**Author's note: A) I don't own Doctor Who and I don't make any money off it; I just like playing with Moffat's toys. B) I'm American so forgive any British faux-pas. **

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**You Write My Biography With Every Passing Breath**

**Chapter 1: Old Familiar Strangers**

She is an enigma. The girl named after herself and by herself; though the latter she won't realise 'til the very end. And in the end she will die so that one day she might be born. Some day.

But not today.

Today she is in London. The upper echelons of Victorian England have always fascinated her and thanks to a filched Vortex manipulator plus a few items she's borrowed from the Tardis' wardrobe she's soaking in the rich atmosphere of Christmas Eve at Windsor Castle. The sharp scent of evergreen wafts in from the next room, where a large Christmas tree stands at the centre of attention. Bedecked with ribbons and candles, it also sports strings of cranberries and popcorn rumoured to have been strung with the aid of the littlest members of the royal family. Small gifts adorn the branches, while their larger counterparts are piled beneath. Only a few years have passed since Prince Albert introduced the tradition and another will slip by until a picture of the royal tree inspires a nation, so the world knows nothing of the garish commercialism it will do; which is probably why she prefers the era.

Inside the dance hall, elaborate garlands of evergreen woven with ivy and littered with holly berries are decoratively draped from one end to the next, encircling the guests dressed in their holiday finery. Sated by the feast and the free-flowing wine, the jovial atmosphere is palpable and the elaborate dances are akin to beholding a living piece of art. Her eyes skim the crowded dance floor, mind analysing and translating the data it's receiving at a rate that would disturb any normal person. But she is far from normal.

She's known that since her mother's whispered words at Demon's Run. Since she lived out her first childhood in a hellish orphanage where the ghost stories were far more real than this era's most popular Christmas tale. Since she lived her second alongside her pre-pubescent parents. Since she ripped the fabric of time asunder, married the best man she's ever known, only to kill him at his urgent request.

A smile flits across her face remembering the first night he'd come to call. By her reckoning it's been three months since they danced to the rhythm of their four hearts under the light of a million, million stars. For as long as it had taken her that night to pick an outfit that proved she was moving away from Mels Zucker and growing into the River Song whose name had been on his dying lips, it had been more than worth the effort. Her smile widens because that was the night she ceased recording facts about the Doctor within her blue book in favor of recounting the stories of their nights spent in his blue box.

Her Doctor and his Tardis: Next stop, everywhere.

The days, on the other hand, are hers and while some days she will choose to pass the time in her cell, more often than not she experiments with new methods of traipsing in and out of Stormcage at her leisure to author her own adventures. Her future reputation is on the line, after all, not to mention flummoxing the guards amuses her to no small end. While it is night in this time period, for her this is one of those day trips; though she thinks perhaps she'll suggest a similar outing for the both of them soon as he's mentioned more than a few times how fond he is of the holiday.

The soft clearing of a throat infringes upon her reverie and the gentleman to whom she was introduced shortly after her arrival steps forward to claim his spot on her dance card. A piece she knows by heart is just stirring and to refuse the gentleman proffering his hand would court a bit too much scandal for her taste, so with a gracious nod she accepts and allows herself to be swept into the dance.

Her partner's steps are sure and he leads with a confidence some of the younger men she's danced with earlier in the night lacked. While certainly not elderly, his hair is a salt-and-pepper mix that ends in a soft widow's peak at the top of his forehead. She adds an extra, more complex, step and to her delight he follows suit with one of his own. His coattails flap and her skirts twirl as they weave in and out amongst the other couples. Soon they are caught up in a fierce match, each vying to outdo the other and she can't think of a time when she's had more fun.

"Is this next waltz claimed?" he asks cordially when the song ends and leads into the new, slower dance.

She shakes her head and with a small bow he steps in closer.

"...River?"

The word catches her off-guard and her head snaps up, only to realise she's missed his question entirely and is confused because she always travels under a pseudonym and cannot imagine how he knows her true name.

"I'm sorry?" is all she can think to reply, still perplexed but thankful her feet haven't faltered in the meanwhile.

"The Thames," he clarifies, smiling down at her. "I find it lovely this time of year, don't you?"

"Oh yes," her answer is breathless with what might be construed as wonder, but is actually relief. Her identity remains hidden, where she prefers it, and the dance goes on.

He chuckles as if she's missed a joke.

For the first time her eyes meet his straight on, trying to catch the measure of him. Blue, flecked with green swirls around black irises and she is entranced though she could not say why. There is an encouraging nod and a small smile on his lips as though she's on the cusp of some new discovery and he is urging her forward.

"Who are you?" she whispers, because she is sure she knows him though she cannot recall the face.

"Haven't you worked it out yet?" he teases, and in a severe breach of decorum, sets her palm flat on his chest, still continuing the dance as if he's done nothing out of the ordinary.

She has a mind to slap him for being so bold, but in that moment her mind registers the message her palm is relating. The rhythm of four that is as dear to her as any music ever composed.

"Hello, Sweetie," the familiar words pass her lips in what she hopes is a coy manner despite her shock.

His wide grin is her reward and he catches up her hand away from his hearts before they draw any unnecessary attention, "Hello, Dear."

"Oooh, is that a Scottish brogue you've got now?" she's intrigued, mind racing to tabulate all of the changes.

He shrugs, "Not sure yet."

"Early days, then?"

The playful smile returns and she can see the word "Spoilers" coming before he speaks it.

"Hmph," she pouts, thinking it not fair he's so far ahead of her, then retorts, "Mother would love the nose. Very Roman."

"Invasion of the hot Italians," he mutters and when she looks for clarification he shakes his head. "Nothing, nothing. Just something she told me once."

"I can only imagine," she grins. "She once boasted to Mels about trying to seduce you, you know?"

"Lovely," his nose wrinkles at the thought and she laughs because her twisted family history is something she cherishes no matter how backwards it might seem to anyone else. This time he lets out an audible groan before complaining, "Why do the mothers always hit on me?"

"Oooh," she's intrigued by this salacious tidbit, "you mean mine's not the first?"

"Perhaps we should go back to discussing the Thames?" he suggests, though she thinks not enough to suggest he's truly uncomfortable.

Deciding to push him a wee bit further she releases a light shrug and gives him another once-over with her eyes, "Well I'd definitely watch out for the mothers now. And the grandmothers."

Words form on his lips but the music comes to an end and he appears to change his mind, instead offering his elbow and issuing an invitation, "Shall we go for a walk?"

It's so simple a request but it warms her heart and she replies quite eagerly, "I'd love to."


	2. Like A Book On A Shelf

**You Write My Biography With Every Passing Breath**

**Chapter 2: Like A Book on A Shelf**

Actually leaving the party is something of a long process what with all of the social niceties that must be doled out, but that's alright. The Doctor is in no hurry.

He's had his fun playing cat and mouse with her, though for as much as he was enjoying himself he hadn't wanted to keep up the game any longer. The look of wonder on her face is worth it all to him and he loves how she takes his regeneration in stride even though he knows they've not been married long from her vantage point. From his, their shared history spans centuries and includes everything from the Library to a tearful farewell on Tranzalore.

Those had been Dark Days after the Ponds were lost and he'd realised he'd finally caught up with Professor Song. For so long after Manhattan he'd hidden in a cloud, styling his hair differently and pretending not to notice the new red settings on his green screwdriver. It was after Dr. Simeon and Tranzalore and everything that had happened with Clara and Rose and his past selves that in a quiet moment after the dust had settled, he'd gotten the courage to don the same suit he'd worn in Berlin, and take his wife to the Singing Towers. He supposes he could've put it off longer, given he'd never come up with a solution beyond reproducing the screwdriver he'd seen in the Library.

But he'd said goodbye like he was going to come back, so he went. And the Towers sang. And the Doctor cried.

The Fall of the Eleventh wasn't too long after and it seemed somehow fitting that this new body looked older. Moving from ten to eleven he'd needed a fresh start and a new lease on life as it were but now he didn't. The ageless god could do without the face of a twelve year old this time round. Though he still wouldn't have been opposed to being ginger.

What he doesn't plan on mentioning to River unless she presses him is that this is his very first night in this new body. Oh, he's had his very first adventure with Clara and it was as exciting as they ever are but she's asleep now, so this is his first time out on his own and there's so much even he isn't sure of. Sexy had brought him here - to a royal party celebrating his favourite holiday - after he'd suggested he wanted something relaxing. And he had been relaxed up until three hours ago when he'd spotted River in the crowd.

She'd not shown a flicker of recognition when he'd gotten someone to introduce them and asked for a spot on her dance card, so he'd been forced to bite his tongue and wait until his turn came. Patiently, he'd waited, watching her as she'd watched everyone else and hoping against hope that she wasn't here with some younger version of himself. Once he'd realised she was on her own it set him to wondering when they were in her time stream and what she was doing here.

It had taken him nearly an hour of watching her dance with the men in front of him on the card to decide that just as he had run around having adventures with her parents or Clara, she too went off on adventures of her own; something he'd acknowledged before but never really envisioned. That she wasn't nearly as brazen as he knew she could be led him to believe she was just coming into her identity as River Song, which meant she was breaking out of prison not only when younger versions of him went to fetch her at night, but also during the day.

The idea thrills him that, in a sense, the Tardis is letting him double-dip and giving them more time together. And the more he thinks about it the more it makes sense because there are things the older, wiser, River knew about him that he knows his eleventh self never told her. To this point he's always thought the Tardis had given her child a crash course on him over the years, but perhaps he's been wrong. Perhaps that's what he's here for now.

"You're very quiet," she remarks as they move away from the castle toward the copse of trees shielding the Tardis from view. "Or is that just..."

She trails off, waving a hand up and down his body and he can't help but laugh, shaking his head, "Not that I know. Though honestly," he pauses contemplatively, "I can't be sure."

"That new?" she arches an eyebrow and he nods. He can almost hear her neurons firing, assimilating all of the context clues to put the puzzle together but she surprises him by asking, "Have you done Berlin yet?"

"Yes," he says slowly, unsure of what she's fishing for.

"So this," she waves a hand up and down him again, "is number twelve?"

He nods, sure she should have realised that from the start.

"Just checking," there is a vulnerability in her voice that reminds him yet again this is early days for her as River Song. "Not like we meet in any sensible order."

"That's an understatement," he chuckles. "But what about..."

And this time it is his turn to trail off as a thought occurs to him.

He gives her a smile to set her at ease and takes her hand in one of his with a loving squeeze, "You know, I think it's time we made you a spotter's guide!"

"A what?" her curly mane wags back and forth.

"Spotter's guide," he repeats, more amused than put off.

They step beneath the cover of the trees and he uses his free hand to snap open the door, then ushers her in.

"Do you think she'd let me open her that way too?" River muses aloud, stepping inside and allowing him to take her coat.

He shrugs, "I fancy she'd let you do whatever you'd like. You are-"

"'The Child of the Tardis,'" she sighs wearily. "So I've heard and one of these times I'm going to pin you down as to what that actually means."

"But not tonight?" he guesses.

She shakes her head, "I've got plenty more for you tonight." Padding across the room she pauses to skim her right hand over the control panel and looks up at him with a smile, "The new look's nice."

Straightening his lapels with both hands he returns the smile and thanks her, only to have her melodic laughter fill the room while his ship thrums amusedly beneath them.

"You look nice too, Sweetie," she assures him with a condescending pat on the shoulder that reminds him of something an older River would do. "Now what about that guide you mentioned?"

"Well as you said," he begins to explain, waving her out of the console room and toward the library, "we never meet in any kind of order so it's high time you had a way to tell which me it is you're dealing with."

A sense of rightness about the task engulfs him as she nods in silent agreement and he's glad to see his old girl has moved the library door closer to the console room so they can get started straight away. A nervous buzz of excitement fills the air around them but it's a good kind, laden with potential for what lies ahead.

For the second time that night he hears her gasp in surprise, this time as she takes in the size and scope of the Tardis' library. They've come in the west entrance, where a cosy sitting room arrangement is nestled in front of a roaring fire, complete with thick, Persian rugs and books surrounding them on every side. Clearly, it's her first time here and he's delighted to be witness to it as her eyes move to and fro, taking in everything.

"Where's the pool?" is the last question he expects her to ask, but she does so anyway. "Mother used to talk about it incessantly when we were girls. Said you'd climbed up out of it when she found you."

"It was a rough landing," he tries to explain. "Pool should be around here somewhere, though."

"You don't know where it is?" her laugh is incredulous.

"Rooms are always getting shifted," he shrugs. "But they always turn up when you need them."

He watches her process this for a moment, then she goes back to taking in the view.

"Your collection's amazing," she breathes with wonder. "I think I'm jealous."

Lifting one shoulder in a shrug he remarks, "You shouldn't be. It's yours as well."

That insecurity he's not used to in her rears it head once again in the skeptical look she shoots him so he takes her hand and leads her to the shelves to the right of the hearth.

"That one," he points to one of the smaller tomes, "is a Christmas present from Rory and Amy which now you'll have to pretend to be surprised about and this one over here," he points to another, "you made me buy at a bazaar; though I'm not telling you when. And there are more. Many, many more." It's taken him so long to admit how integrated she's become into his life but he's finally gained enough perspective to tell her without hesitation, "This library's not just mine, River, it's ours."


	3. Faces of You, Pieces of Me

**For my two reviewers and those who are following, with much gratitude.**

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**You Write My Biography With Every Passing Breath**

**Chapter 3: Faces of You, Pieces of Me**

There's not much in the universe as can overwhelm a girl kidnapped at birth, raised out of time, and bred as a psychopathic killer who grows up to marry her mark, but this might just be it. And it's not the change in him or in the Tardis' desktop - because those have always been more window dressing than anything to her. Rather, it is the unavoidable proofs that she's no longer adrift in the galaxy. That she has been and will be loved by the man standing before her, sharing his very private world.

Not trusting herself to say the right thing, she nods and remains quiet.

"You must be exhausted," he says, showing her to a squashy sofa. "Here. Sit down and I'll get us a cuppa."

Once she's settled he scurries off. A pleasant vibration thrums around her and a wardrobe appears to her left.

"Bless," she murmurs, not wasting a moment and feeling even more grateful when she discovers its contents.

The heavy party dress, corset and the rest of her period costume are shed as fast as she can move, to be replaced with long woolen socks, soft grey sweatpants and a hoodie with a faded "Luna University" logo on the front. Retrieving her handbag from the pile of discarded clothes she withdraws a single item and scoops the pile from the rug into the wardrobe, a kind mental impression telling her she needn't worry about the mess.

By the time the Doctor returns with the tea tray she is settled in a nest of pillows on the floor in front of the roaring fire, flipping through her diary.

"Comfortable?" he asks, shedding his dinner jacket and joining her on the floor without a hint of the clumsiness she's grown accustomed to.

She nods and they enjoy a companionable silence, sipping tea and nibbling at the variety of biscuits he's assembled.

"I do have pictures, you know," she comments, tapping on the diary's cover. "But I never could pin down who came in what order."

To prove her point she opens to the back of the book, but instead of the page she is looking for, there's another. One with a single date written on it and circled for emphasis. Setting his tea beside him he reaches out to trace the numbers with his finger.

"Not a bad day," he smiles wistfully.

Almost unconsciously her eyes move to the bow-tie of his own costume from the night and she is the one reaching out this time, skillfully removing it with a single pull and allowing it to pool in her hands. The high-grade silk is smooth between her fingers and a thousand memories of a time that never was come rushing in, uninvited but certainly not unpleasant. She's still unsure of what he thinks of the whole situation but she knows she would do the same thing in an instant if it meant the difference between his life and death.

"So young," she hears him whisper and when she catches his glance he's quick to add, "Both of us were, really."

"I still am," she admits with a sly grin. "I've only been in Stormcage three months."

"And you're out at parties already?" he sounds impressed.

"Quick study," is her casual reply, wrapping and unwrapping the tie around her hand as she speaks. "Girl's gotta have her own hobbies, after all."

His eyes roll at that and he teases, "You should market your cosmetics line."

"Who says I haven't?" she winks, then considers his face and remarks, holding up the bow-tie, "Not so sure this suits this face the same; though who knows what hideous fashion choices you'll replace it with."

"Hideous, River!" he scoffs, snatching the tie back. "Really?!"

"Oh I know what you're capable of," her curls wag back and forth and she flips furiously through the blue book until she finds the page she was looking for.

"Says the woman with ten-inch, platform heels."

"One word," she crows, stabbing her finger at a faded picture in a line-up of old, familiar faces. "Celery."

"That was to-"

She cuts him off and points to another, "And this suit? Did you pluck it off a clown's corpse? And then there's that scarf-"

"I loved that scarf!" he protests.

"Saved the knitting industry single-handedly with that one, I'm sure," she rolls her eyes. "Mind, I wouldn't argue if I bump into him," her finger moves to point out a Doctor clad in a leather jacket that hugs his body in all the right places. "What number's he?"

"Nine," comes the answer.

"That's only three back. I've got a chance, then," she grins, grabbing the pen she always stows inside the book and writing what she's almost sure is the Gallifreyan glyph for nine.

He is peering over her shoulder and gives a broad smile at her effort, though he motions for the pen and adds one last flourish.

Perhaps it's because of spoilers or simply an old man reminiscing on his youth, but he quickly points out ten, then peppers the remainder of the exercise with numerous anecdotes from his earlier regenerations from the first up through his seventh. As he speaks, she numbers the pictures she'd collected at university with careful precision. Sometimes she gets the glyphs just right and other times he has to add minor corrections but he's never rude about it and in fact seems impressed she knows them in the first place. At his eighth he pauses and for a long moment a laden silence falls between them before he speaks softly of the Time War and the actions he was forced to take. She leans close to hear him whisper about a face she hasn't got in her book; one not worthy of the name of the Doctor.

Neither her face, nor her demeanor belie that she's known so many of these facts surrounding the Time War since her childhood. They were drilled into her like one would memorise their times tables or a spelling word list. Those factoids had been cold and distant and weighted with ulterior motives, but these are not. He sits before her now, grasping her hand as if it is a lifeline and inviting her not only to listen, but attempt to comprehend the magnitude and complexities of what transpired so long ago. By the time he quiets, their hands are once again tangled and bound by his bow-tie, this time forged not out of needy desperation but a loving trust she is only starting to fathom.

He leans in for a kiss.

She makes it a good one.

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Amy had once accused him of wanting to find more Time Lords because he wanted to be forgiven and it is just as true now as it ever was. His entire relationship with River has been building to this point, to the denouement where his mind slips into hers as their lips crash together.

Their hands still fasted together, she breaks contact for the briefest moment to slip her arms around his neck, even as her lips return to his and her mind enfolds him in waves of sorrow and empathy. Of all the beings in the galaxy she has lived in the grey places of life and can fathom what it cost to choose the path he took.

Neither of them knows how much time passes because they are outside of it in a world that belongs only to the pair of them but when the sense of time returns their hands are free and they are curled together atop the pillows, having exchanged clothing for a single blanket. The fire is now a heap of orange embers casting a warm glow between them.

"Will I see you again?" she asks softly, tucking herself closer to him for the time being. "This you?"

"I don't know," he answers honestly.

"What?" She teases, "No spoilers?"

"We'll both be surprised," he laughs, idly playing with a loose curl.

Her eyes track upward to meet his and not for the first time she traces his jaw ever so lightly.

"Am I there for you?" The question is tender and quiet. Both know he cannot answer but she adds, "I hope I am."

He aches to tell her that she needn't worry. She is always there for him when he really needs her, just as he is always there to catch her when she jumps.

Being on the opposite end of the spoiler spectrum is much harder than a future her will make it look. He decides she gets that from Rory because it definitely didn't come from her mother. Amy always made fast and loose with the spoilers, especially early on.

"How are they these days? Do you see them much?" she asks lazily, and he realises his thoughts are leaking out to her.

"They're fine," he assures himself as much as her. "Not traveling with me just yet, though."

"I presumed as much since Mum hasn't ambushed me," she smiles.

He does his best to match the smile because there is still a pain in his hearts for the Ponds, just as there is for Donna and Rose and Sarah Jane and Jamie and so many, many of the others. All of them helped him but eventually everyone leaves. Or forgets. Or dies.

Well, except Jack.

"I'm not traveling alone," he assures her.

"That's good, right?" She asks, then adds with a smirk, "Space Gandalf."

He throws up his hands playfully, "Are there _any_ secrets between you two?"

"It's not my fault my mother grew up with a crack in her wall in an alternate universe that filled her head with stories," River's laugh fills the cosy room along with the corners of his empty hearts and he breathes it in like an oxygen-starved man. Then she looks up at him suddenly, "Is it?"

"No," he says. Then, "Well, possibly. But mostly not. I think."

"Oh, I know that I was there," she says quickly. "Mother told me that bit too. The first time we met after Berlin she had me write down everything she could recall from what she called the 'crack world.' Helped her sort out her thoughts I suppose. How do you do it?"

"Keep track of the timelines?" He shrugs, then taps his head with an index finger, "I'm hard-wired for it."

She ponders this for a moment before wondering aloud, "Am I?"

"Probably," he answers. "Your mind seems more Time Lord than human so more likely it's just the training you lack."

"My mind has had plenty of training," she shudders against him.

"Well, yes," he keeps his tone soft and gentle, smoothing her hair as he sorts out his own thoughts. "But a wholly different sort and not from a Time Lord. No matter how much they may have tried there are things the Silence and Kovarian wouldn't -_ couldn't_ - have known about the way a Time Lord's brain is organised. How we separate and store things like timelines and regenerations so we don't go mad."

"I can remember bits and pieces of things from that timeline," she admits. "But I presumed any human who's travelled in the Vortex could do the same. Mum can and even Dad remembers those 2000 years he spent waiting. The Cairo timeline is much clearer in my memory."

"It's the most recent," he explains. "And you were older at the Pandorica than you are now so your mind may be protecting you from future spoilers. We're in an altered time state but our lives are still more or less parallel to the-"

"Crack world," River supplies with a laugh when he can't decide what to call it.

He smiles with her, thinking it's as good a title for it as any and adds, "River, we were at ground zero of both the Pandorica and Cairo, so our lives are something like a jigsaw puzzle that cannot fit within the parameters of any one time stream. They will always overlap because we will always have a key role to play in making sure all is as it should be."

"The Guardians of Time," she whispers.

"A Time Lord," he corrects, meeting her eyes and attempting to convey the full significance of what he's saying, "and his Lady."


End file.
